Letters to December
by OKFan
Summary: Arthur and Alfred have been best friends for years. How will their relationship change when Arthur steals Alfred's diary? Will Arthur be able to decode the mysteries held within it? US/UK/US Last chapter rated M.
1. December Second

**Title:** Letters to December: Chapter One, December Second.  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> England/America, America/England  
><strong>Genre:<strong> Romance  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Summary:<strong> "It was no secret that Alfred preferred the warm to the cold, thus it was quite clear to anyone that came into contact with him during the winter that he'd much rather be chopping off his own fingers than shoveling the snow."

Hello everyone, I'm bored and I hate all of this cold weather…this is the result of the mixture.

Rating may change, I'm still undecided.

This story is based off of a Facebook status that I posted when I was feeling particularly bitter about the weather.

_Disclaimer:_ I do not own Hetalia or any of its characters.

_Note:_ This story takes place in the near future, around March 2012...in hindsight, I probably could have just left the years at 20XX or not mentioned years at all, but it feels better to me when there's an actual date. I think it seems more like an actual diary entry that way.

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><p><strong>Letters to December: December Second<strong>

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><p>Arthur knew Alfred. Dare to say, he knew Alfred quite well. They'd known each other since grade school, after all.<p>

Now, Alfred F. Jones was the sort of person that appeared to be an open book to the untrained eye. Arthur was quite aware that the boy put up a front. However, even though he knew that the smiles and the constant joking were not entirely true, even though he knew that the laughs and idiotic behavior were often covering up hurt feelings, even though he was quite aware that those blue eyes preferred to gaze at Macbeth rather than Twilight, he still never would have considered Alfred to have an ounce of poetic soul. He doubted the boy could even write a simple metaphor that didn't contain something to do with fast food or baseball.

Needless to say, when he stumbled upon a little blue book that he assumed to be a schedule, he was shocked to open it and discover what might be considered a diary. A rather poetic diary, mind you. One that he'd be more likely to associate with the American's much more cultured brother, if not for the specifics of the content.

It was no secret that Alfred preferred the warm to the cold, thus it was quite clear to anyone that came into contact with him during the winter that he'd much rather be chopping off his own fingers than shoveling the snow. This innate dislike for the season was polar opposite to Matthew who adored flopping down in the fluff and building forts when he wasn't skating around on makeshift rinks.

This being the case, the "Letters to December" were clearly not Matthew's. This conclusion only left one other possible prospect.

Arthur swallowed, feeling mildly guilty for looking through the younger twin's belongings (yes, Alfred was younger, but you'd be hard pressed to get him to acknowledge it), but not guilty enough to squash his curiosity and walk away.

He looked to the first entry, re-reading it and pondering how someone like Alfred could have written this, it wasn't something that the Alfred he knew would write (and he had been under the impression that he knew everything about his child hood friend, perhaps save for some more intimate details that he was fairly certain that he didn't have much interest in knowing anyway).

_December 2, 2010_

_Dear December,_  
><em>I know you just got here and I mean no offense, but I miss June and I don't think that this is going to work out. I'm sorry, but I just prefer June's warm smile to your cold shoulder.<em>

It was short, simple. But these few words carried more meaning to those that knew Alfred…they held more meaning to Arthur.

The first thought Arthur had, was how unlike Alfred this 'letter' was.

A more appropriate letter for Alfred to be writing to December was "FUCK, I HATE YOUR SNOW AND YOUR -5 DEGREE WEATHER!" He read over the passage once more just to be sure that such an option really wasn't the case and the lack of sleep over the last few days wasn't fucking with his mind.

Having read the letter a number of times, he slowly began to piece together the information contained that a normal friend of Alfred's would likely have no hope of realizing. December 2nd, 2010…the very first thing stated, seemingly innocent. However, this was the day after, if the Englishman recalled correctly, Alfred started dating that platinum blonde, vanilla skinned beauty that had been in one of their classes. He thought back to it, the relationship between his best friend and the girl that they shared Chemistry class with (a class which he was forced to take by a puppy eyed jock; he's never stopped regretting it).

Alfred's relationships never lasted particularly long; this one was one of the longest by comparison. He could remember how shocked the student body had been when they returned to classes after winter break to find that their star hitter had been dumped only a month after the start of their relationship, on January 1st, 2011. A perfect way to start the New Year, indeed.

Though, as he read the letter, he began remembering things that he had forgotten. It was true. The beauty from Belarus certainly did have a cold demeanor. Her beauty made her infamous, equal only to the renownedness of her inapproachability. Men both admired and feared her. So, when the cold queen and the sunny golden boy got together, the gossip, naturally, flew every which way, only to spread like fire once more after the news of their split.

Arthur was admittedly shocked that it had lasted as long as it did, considering how different the two were. He could also admit, however, that he did not know Natalia as well as he knew Alfred (not by a long shot). It was possible that, like Alfred, she also hid under a front. Only her front was a cold glare and sharp tongue opposed to a dumb grin and clap on the back. Therefore, he could not dismiss the possibility that beneath both of their contrasting masks hid a million similarities.

Through these vague memories of their junior year, he was able to discern who the letter was referring to…well, half of the letter.

It was clear to him that December was describing the girl that Alfred had dated over a year ago. It was clear that, if this letter spoke the truth, Alfred had been unhappy in the relationship from the get go. On the flip side, it was not clear why Alfred had stayed in a relationship with a woman he didn't care about for so long, nor was it clear about the true reason for their parting.

While these questions were puzzling and his peridot eyes scanned the short letter for clues that didn't seem to be there, the question that boggled him the most was the month that Alfred had been missing.

Who was June?

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><p>Hope that you enjoyed what I've written so far.<p>

I'm going to try and post chapters periodically throughout the course of this month, but anyone that's read one of my chapter stories should know quite well that I'm terrible at updating regularly. Writing is pretty difficult when I'm not feeling particularly motivated or inspired, so the urge often comes in random spurts.

I'll try to keep up with it.


	2. December Twelfth

**Title:** Letters to December: Chapter Two, December Twelfth.  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> England/America, America/England  
><strong>Genre:<strong> Romance  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Summary:<strong> "He really needed to make one that didn't have a flower pattern…he was kind of sick of his friends taking jabs at his masculinity, so what if he could sew and liked to embroider roses on his linen?"

Wow…updates for this are not as fluid as I hoped they'd be. XD I figured it'd get done pretty quickly since the chapters are super short and the story itself isn't supposed to be that long.

My bad. Probably would have helped to actually have made a plan for this before starting it.

School doesn't help either, but that's a given. Finals are this week, so once they're done I should have more time for this.

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><p><strong>Letters to December: December Twelfth<strong>

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><p>Peridot eyes blinked up at the ceiling. Sleepy.<p>

Wheat hair fanned across rose petals. Messy.

He was splayed on top the comforter. Thinking.

He really needed to make one that didn't have a flower pattern…he was kind of sick of his friends taking jabs at his masculinity, so what if he could sew and liked to embroider roses on his linen? But the way other people viewed him on account of his hobbies was the last thing on his mind right now.

A sigh escaped past chapped lips and his brows furrowed in thought.

He had stolen it. He had actually taken the damned blue book home with him. Smuggled it into his jacket and slinked out the door. It was a good thing that the Jones's were so used to Arthur coming and going, or else it may have seemed suspicious ("Like a cat, that boy!" Mrs. Jones would say. Not that he could bring himself to agree with her).

He turned his head slightly, gazing lamely at the small book perched on the oak night stand, blocking the view of the blinking red lights of his alarm clock. He suspected it must be around 3 a.m.

As soon as he got home, he shivered at the realization that he had just stolen something, and it wasn't from one of his older brothers…he'd stolen something of Alfred's, something very personal. What if Alfred was angry? Would he even notice? The diary was quite old, over a year. Surely something like this wouldn't be enough to ruin their decade long friendship? Of course not, they were closer than that…weren't they?

He groaned, rolling over onto his side and glaring at the diary. It sat there, just as it had been for the last 16 hours since he had set it down, mocking him.

He clicked his tongue in an agitated way before finally reaching over and snatching it off of the oak surface, he wasn't going to be able to sleep anyway.

Shifting back onto his back, Arthur flipped the book open, his eyes roaming the pages once more. Contemplating.

_December 5th, 2010_

_Dear December,_

_It's been five days now and there's been no improvement. Where ever I go, you're like a cloud that follows over head, casting a shadow and blocking the sun. June is different. June lights up my life in a way that I don't think you ever could._

From reading this, Arthur was beginning to realize there were many things he didn't know about Alfred. Maybe he didn't actually know him as well as he had once thought.

He didn't know that the blue eyed teen would ever write something like this, that he even kept a diary at all. He didn't know how the boy had really felt for Natalia. Nor did he know that Alfred had a serious crush. Sure, there were girls that he'd dated (like Natalia), but he never seemed very serious about any of them (especially considering how Natalia, who he only dated for a month, was his longest relationship).

What else didn't he know about Alfred?

The Englishman was quickly beginning to doubt himself and his relationship with his classmate and long time friend.

Were there other things that Alfred had been keeping a secret from him? Not to say that keeping a few secrets was a bad thing; Arthur had many of his own, but for Alfred to keep secrets? He was such a loud mouth, Arthur had a hard time imagining it. It was true that Alfred put up a front, acting cheerful when he really may not be, but masking one's emotions wasn't the same (or at least, so he thought. He masked a lot of his emotions as well, excepting his anger). Besides, Alfred was always chattering about something or other, Arthur was sure that the boy told him everything, whether he was interested in listening or not.

He swallowed and flipped to the next page, his thumb running absently across the edge of the small book as he read, as though petting it.

_December 12th, 2010_

_Dear December,_

_You chill me to the bone. I haven't seen June in what feels like forever and I regret to say that I miss his warmth. It's embarrassing to think just how dependent I've become on the heater while you're around, but June's presence is all I need to keep warm._

His mind reeled with the possibilities. He thought of the secrets that the other man may be keeping from him, the meaning behind the scrawl on the diary's pages, and considered the likelihood that he may have told those secrets to someone else, someone that he trusted more than Arthur.

If it were Matthew, then Arthur would of course understand. The only person closer to Alfred than he was (to his knowledge), was Alfred's family. But what if there was someone else he was sharing these things with? Perhaps with this girl, June?

His heart jerked at thought. The feeling lingering in his chest wasn't one that he could explain. Was it anger at the possibility of not being trusted, despite being best friends for so many years? Hurt at never being told of this girl whom Alfred seemed so infatuated with? Or…perhaps…jealousy? Jealousy, because his best friend may be taken from him again?

As he looked over the passage once more, memories flooded back to him.

Memories of boring, listless days.

The days Alfred had spent with the Belarusian girl were nothing like the ones he had spent with his previous girlfriends.

He recalled that during that time, he almost never saw Alfred. They'd wave occasionally as they passed by one another, or chatted briefly during class or breaks, but they didn't spend time with each other the way that they had before. Natalia took up all of his time.

At the time, he was lonely and bored. Life just wasn't the same without Alfred. Alfred made things exciting. He made life worth living, whereas without him, the Brit felt as though he were just going through the motions, sitting on an imaginary raft floating out to sea, floating away from the sun-kissed beach, away from Alfred.

During that time, he couldn't have been the only one that the American had been spending less time with. He couldn't have been the only one seeing less of Alfred.

June was seeing less of him too and, apparently, Alfred hadn't been too pleased about it.

The uncomfortable feeling in his chest continued to thump within him. It's origin still unclear.

He shut the book, set it back onto the night stand, and crawled under his home made, and very manly, flower covered covers.

Even as his lids drooped closed, the question still buzzed at the back of his skull…

Who the bloody hell is June?

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><p>And that's that.<p>

Hope you've enjoyed what's been finished so far.

Feel free to drop a review and let me know what you think of it.


	3. December Twenty Fifth

**Title:** Letters to December: Chapter Three, December Twenty Fifth.  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> England/America, America/England  
><strong>Genre:<strong> Romance  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Summary:<strong> "_OMG 'Cybertron' is such a funny name!1!_"

I didn't think this story out at all…just winging it…in retrospect…I probably should have planned it. XD "Christmas in July" sounds way better than "Christmas in June"

Merry Christmas!

_Response to thegame:_ I appreciate your enthusiasm and am glad that you're enjoying it! Thank you for reading and commenting. Sorry that the chapters are so short, but I really did just start this story on a lark. ^^; It's not my intention to make it long.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed!

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><p><strong>Letters to December: December Twenty Fifth<strong>

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><p>June…June…Arthur woke up that morning. June was all he could think about.<p>

June is a man.

That is, unless Alfred had mistaken "his" or "her" when he was writing the entry from December 12th.

After waking up, he took a shower, and then proceeded to glare at the diary for several minutes before picking it back up and reading through the "letters" once more.

How had his sleepy mind and tired eyes not picked that up last night? He felt like a fool.

Though, this conclusion brought him to one more.

There's another secret being kept from him. This isn't the way a person writes about a friend, this is the way one might talk about a love interest. Since when did Alfred have that sort of interest in men? How long had he been keeping such a major factor hidden? Was he unsure about his sexuality?

The Englishman would be lying if he said he weren't just a tad livid at having been kept in the dark. He would have thought that the boy would have confided in him about his preferences, even if he was just having some ideation in regards to homosexuality, at the time when he, himself, had made the decision to come out to Alfred.

Then again, that was several years ago, perhaps Alfred hadn't known or realized his feelings back then? It was in middle school, and Arthur did develop rather a bit quicker than his other classmates (mentally anyway, his legs never did quite catch up as much as he would have liked).

Arthur grunted, irritated, as his mind buzzed. Trying to piece the puzzle together, decoding the letters as best as he could as he leered at each page, his efforts fruitless.

As he flipped, he took note that there was an entry for each day, most of them meaningless babble, the kind that he would have expect to find in a diary of Alfred's.

He skipped past December 16th, which seemed to be blathering on about how he had stubbed his big left toe on his brother's "damn death skates," and he amusedly glanced over December 20th, which complained of a dream about the Autobots and Buzz Lightyear, and why were they together anyway? Buzz should have been in Andy's bedroom, not on Cybertron, and "_OMG 'Cybertron' is such a funny name!1!_"

Arthur wondered briefly why Alfred had written out a one, but quickly let it slide, it was Alfred…most of his antics weren't worth analyzing and it would be a waste of time to do so.

As he continued to flip and pause on certain pages, his brows furrowed. There didn't appear to be any pattern as to when he wrote the letters, so it was impossible to determine just how long it would be before the next one would appear, if there were anymore, that is.

He eventually came upon a page that looked rather strange in comparison to the others. This one was indeed one of the letters that he'd been searching for. It was, however, turned upside down, as though the American boy had sleepily picked up the book the wrong way and not cared to flip it the correct way before writing.

_December 25th, 2010_

_Dear December,  
><em>

_Today is Christmas, a day of giving, thanks, and family. It's a day that's supposed to come with a warm feeling, but all I see is white. I'm seeing neither my family nor giving thanks…all I see is your frosty gaze. Your frozen skin just doesn't give me the warmth that I crave. Everything is turned upside down and all I want is a Christmas in June, rather than a Christmas in you._

He could feel his cheeks heating up…well, at the very least, he now knew that Alfred wasn't a virgin anymore.

Although, as reluctant as he'd be to admit it, Arthur's mind did have a tendency to fall into the proverbial gutter, so it was quite possible that he was reading too much into the words…but, there was still no denying that they did seem rather suggestive.

He tried not to imagine it…tried not to imagine those large bronzed hands running over pale breasts, tried not to imagine his lips on her. The more he tried not to imagine it, the more he started to imagine cerulean eyes roving over a faceless man, Alfred's short nails raking over broad shoulders and a flat chest.

He could feel his own lips snarling in a frown, an uncomfortable clench in his gut. He didn't want to think about Alfred touching Natalia, but for some reason, his blood boiled when he thought of the boy with a man.

He was beginning to understand, little by little, the meaning behind the letters, the meaning of his own emotions. His jealousy in particular.

He'd known Alfred for years, Alfred was the first person that he came out to, but he'd never actually considered Alfred as more than just his best friend. It would have been stupid to give any thought to a closer relationship, what with Alfred being completely straight (or so he thought)…but, if he were honest with himself, if Alfred weren't straight, it'd have changed everything; the dynamic of their friendship, the structure of their bond.

He wasn't just jealous because he felt as though his best friend was being taken away. He was angry, infuriated at the thought of him being taken away by another man.

If it were a woman, then it can't be helped. No straight man would ever choose him over a slim chick with a nice rack.

But…if it were a man? What would any other man have to offer Alfred that he didn't? Why would he like any other man more than him when they'd known each other for so long? They'd been best friends for years, they'd squabbled, they were very familiar with each other's family and got along with all of them, they talked about nearly everything, were comfortable with one another, and more importantly, trusted one another. Was there really a person out there (excluding family), a man or woman, that Alfred trusted and cared about more than he did Arthur?

He could feel his hands sweating, shaking, as his fingers gripped the edge of the book's pages. His eyes narrowed in thought, he let out a frustrated sigh and stiffly let one hand drop its hold, raking it through short messy locks.

He knew what needed to be done. Now he just needed to work up the courage to do it…something that shouldn't be too difficult as long as he's still feeling aggravated…or drunk…he could certainly use a drink.

He needed to speak with Alfred. He needed to ask him about the diary, about his sexuality, but out of all of the questions he needed to ask him, the most important was undeniably…

Who the fuck is June?

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><p>Some how, it feels like the chapters keep getting shorter…but word count shows that it's about the same.<p>

The next chapter should be the last one…well, unless I decide to make an epilogue or something, but that's not on my list of non-existent plans at the moment.


	4. December Thirty First

**Title:** Letters to December: Chapter Four, December Thirty First.  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> England/America, America/England  
><strong>Genre:<strong> Romance  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Summary:<strong> "You learn quite a bit about a person after growing up together and breaking into your father's whiskey stash during summer vacation while he's at work"

Happy New Year!

This is the last chapter! As one might expect, it's a bit longer than the others.

Thanks to all of the readers and reviewers for following along.

Hope that you enjoy it!

_Note:_ I have some vague ideas for an epilogue, but am still unsure as to whether or not I'll be writing it. It really just depends on how inspired/motivated I feel to write it. In the case that I do write it, there's a 98% chance that this story's rating would be bumped up to an M…because no matter how much plot I try to put into a story, it almost always leads back to porn…if you haven't read my other Hetalia stories and you enjoy smut with hits of plot, I suggest you give them a whirl. The content matter of some of those stories is a bit _questionable_, but who knows? You might enjoy them anyway (shameless self advertisement is shameless). ;)

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><p><strong>Letters to December: December Thirty First<strong>

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><p>Alfred…Alfred…Arthur paced the white tiles of the kitchen floor, his bare feet clapping lightly with each step. Alfred was all he could think about.<p>

He had a hunch; a hunch that, if correct, could completely change his relationship with Alfred. However, there were a few problems with that hunch.

If he was wrong, but got his hopes up, it would be pretty damn difficult to ever look Alfred in the eye ever again.

If he was right, does it even still apply? The letters were over a year old!

If he was right…does he even want to be right?

The sound of his feet slapping against the tiles stopped, echoing briefly, only to be followed with a harsh bang as Arthur smacked his forehead against the fridge. He groaned as he tried to clear his mind. What good does thinking ever do?

He needed to talk to Alfred. He had to, and as determined and dead set as he felt about it a few minutes ago, his courage to do so was already fading. He knew it wouldn't last long.

No matter whether or not his theory was right, no matter whether or not he wanted it to be right…if it no longer applied, it didn't matter. If it did apply, but Alfred changed his mind after realizing that Arthur had nicked his diary, then it didn't matter.

He had vaguely considered it before…the possible outcome that his thievery may result in. But, now that he was ready to give the diary back and have a serious discussion with the sapphire eyed poet, his vague consideration had become a full blown anxiety.

He'd love to think that Alfred would laugh it off, that he wouldn't care…or that even if he was angry or hurt, that he'd quickly get over it and forgive Arthur, just like he always does…but, as much as he'd love to believe that it would work out perfectly, he couldn't help the nagging voice at the back of his mind that was telling him off. It shrieked and prattled, "what you did was unforgivable," and "you invaded his privacy, this isn't the same as sixth grade camp when you read his 'adventure diary,' he actually consented to sharing that with you!"

His guilt was overwhelming.

He swallowed past the lump forming his throat, and ignored the stinging feeling behind his eyes.

He didn't want to imagine it. He couldn't imagine a life without Alfred, and what if the other man really was angry enough to sever their friendship?

He sighed…if he was going to lose his friendship, he may as well learn all that he can before then…as guilty as he felt, Arthur Kirkland was no quitter and a firm believer in the phrase "finish what you started."

It wasn't because he was still curious, nope, absolutely not. He was too guilty to feel curious…lifting his head from its spot on the fridge, and ignoring the way that his skin stuck and it felt like he was peeling himself off of it, he turned around and picked up the blue book from where he'd left it on the granite counter top.

Flipping to the last page of the diary, he gently sat himself down, resting his elbows on the chestnut dining table, noting the way the page looked as the morning light filtered in through the stain glass back door, the light dancing as the shadows from the trees outside wavered.

_December 31st, 2010_

_Dear December,_

_It's over, we're done. I realize now that June is my number one. I can no longer hide that all I want is to be by his side. With the New Year, I'll say good bye and hold my head up high. I'll wait for June, and pray a tune, hoping that my courage will hold out. The next time we meet, to him, with a smile I shall greet._

It was difficult for Arthur to suppress his grin. The way Alfred had clearly tried to rhyme his words every so often was rather amusing…not so much that he tried to rhyme them, as the fact that it was obvious that certain parts had been added specifically to make a rhyme. He wasn't sure what the purpose of the rhymes were; perhaps he'd been in a good mood? Just trying something new?...Or, maybe he'd been drunk? He did write it on New Year's Eve, after all. Sure, he was underage, but as innocent as Alfred F. Jones tried to pretend he was, Arthur knew otherwise. You learn quite a bit about a person after growing up together and breaking into your father's whiskey stash during summer vacation while he's at work…but, of all the things he'd learned during those years and youthful drunken afternoons, the boy's sexuality was apparently not one of them.

His eyes furrowed…he again considered his hunch…he didn't want to seem conceited, or to put ideas into his own head…but, there really was no other man as close to Alfred as he was…that aside…June…he'd met Alfred in June.

He remembered it clearly, the day he and his family moved into their current home.

It was his first time outside of England. He'd heard a lot about America, rumors and television, mostly, but wasn't overly excited about their arrival. That is, not until he met Alfred.

Arthur had always been the sort of person that enjoyed solitude. He didn't have many friends, he didn't play with his brothers, and he had the tendency to sit by himself, reading, or talking to what others would have seen as thin air. He didn't approach others and, for the most part, others didn't approach him. Alfred was different.

Alfred had been the first to come up to him, to try and talk to him, to invite him to play. As adamant as he'd tried to be about wanting to be left alone, the cheery boy would have none of it, and Arthur was unwillingly dragged along by the little ball of energy for days before he finally started going with him by choice. They'd been together, been best friends, ever since.

He closed the book, one hand rubbing at his temple. June held a deep meaning for both of them…the month Arthur moved to America, the month he and Alfred met, the month that they got into their first fight, the first time they made up, the first time he made a friend…

The pieces of the puzzle fit…but, did it even matter? He could be wrong, it might not apply, Alfred might have changed his mind…and again, the question was posed, what did Arthur feel?

He couldn't deny that he was attracted to Alfred. He'd have to be a blind fool not to be…but, their friendship was one that spanned over ten years. Could he think of Alfred as anything more than just a friend? No matter what, he knew he didn't want to lose Alfred. Hypothetically, if his theory was correct, if it still applied, if they…tried being together in _that_ way, what if it didn't work out? Their friendship could be ruined; he could end up losing Alfred anyway.

He didn't want to think about it. Maybe he could visit Alfred, pretend that nothing had ever happened, and discretely slip the diary back where he found it, praying that Alfred wouldn't question or notice?

He mulled over that possible path…it seemed plausible.

He jumped, the diary falling to the floor as the door bell rang. Quickly getting to his feet and making his way through the dining and living room, he stopped at the door, irritated that his thought process had been interrupted, probably by his brother forgetting his keys again.

As he unlocked and pried the door open, it occurred to him that two of his brothers had moved out and the other was at work, there was no way it could be them, but by the time this thought reached him, the door was already open and standing before him was a man with a large grin spread over his face, golden hair twinkling as the sun reflected off of the strands, and vitreous blue eyes.

Alfred.

He immediately went into panic, the house was a mess, he had changed back into his pajamas after showering, his hair had probably dried in a messy way, and more importantly the book was still on the dining room floor, he couldn't imagine a worse case scenario.

"Hey!" The American beamed, lightly pushing past Arthur and inviting himself into the home.

The Englishman blanched, his mind working quicker than his body could process, odd stuttering rushing past his lips as he tried to form a coherent sentence in response.

As he listened to the other man's puzzled inquiry ("Huh?") and watched in horror as he made his way over to the dining room, bending over to pick up what Arthur had stupidly stolen and so careless dropped, all he could bring himself to do was anxiously let out a strangled, "Sorry!"

He turned to fully face the other teenager, his hands fisted by his sides, the sound of the front door closing resonating through the empty house. He could feel his eyes starting to water and scolded himself for it, forcing his eyes to meet Alfred's, he repeated softly, "Sorry…"

Alfred looked to the very familiar book in his hands, then glanced over at Arthur and smiled, his eyes crinkling slightly at the edges, "What for?"

"Eh?" Arthur blinked, wide eyed, "what do you mean "what for?"" his hands unfisted, and he wrapped them around himself, as though crossing his arms in such a way would work as a successful shield, "You know what that is, don't you?"

Alfred's smile never dropped as he crossed the space separating himself and Arthur, tapping the book lightly against the other teen's chest, "Do you really think I'd have left something like this out in the open, right next to your back pack, if I hadn't meant for you to see it?" The taller boy watched as his friend's face shifted from confused to shocked, "You forgot your back pack, by the way…it's in my car."

Arthur was at a loss for words, his arms dropping once more as large rough hands placed the blue book into his smaller ones. He stared at it momentarily before looking back up at Alfred, his mouth agape, his mind still processing everything that had transpired in the last two minutes.

He was brought back to reality by Alfred's hearty chuckle, "Next time, let me read yours and we'll call it even!"

Looking away from the bright smile, Arthur stared at the beige wall to his right, pretending that he wasn't captivated, "As though I'd write something so girly…" he mumbled, smacking Alfred in the shoulder with the diary.

As Alfred continued to laugh, peridot irises couldn't help but be drawn back to him, despite their effort not to wander. Arthur, too, found himself laughing, but he wasn't sure why. He blamed the diary, Alfred, the contagiousness of the other boy's laugh, and his own stupidity.

As they both calmed down, and retired to the couch, catching up on the mundane and chatting airily over family and sports, Arthur thought back to the image that angered him the most…the image of a faceless man being held by Alfred…the shadowed features slowly being filled out with his own.

His heart fluttering and cheeks aflame, he came to the revelation…

I am June.

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><p>Fin.<p> 


	5. Epilogue:  Letters to June

**Title:** Letters to December: Epilogue - Letters to June.  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> England/America, America/England  
><strong>Genre:<strong> Romance  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M  
><strong>Summary:<strong> "And that was Alfredian for "fix the fucking pipe already! I can't stand that damn dripping noise any more, it's driving me insane!""

I decided to write an Epilogue. Sorry it took so long…I hope it's worth the wait.

Yes, there's porn…it's stupid and sappy.

Speaking of "stupid and sappy," have you read "He's The One Eye Love!" yet? Sure, it's a skull-fuck fic…but it's a fucking sappy skull-fuck fic, and, really, how many of those are there? You should take the risk and read it and let me know what you think! :D I figured I'd mention it, since I recently made some minor changes to it.

I thought about posting this chapter in June, since all of the "Letters to December" were posted in December, it makes sense to post the "Letters to June" in June, right? But, then part of me went "that's way too long! That'd be mean!" so I decided not to.

It's really long in comparison to the other chapters…

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia or any of its characters…but the lame, stupid poems? They're mine.

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Letters to December: Epilogue - Letters to June<strong>

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><p><em>June 20th, 2012<em>

_Dear June,_

_The light tap echoes deafeningly within the depths of the concrete and plaster_

_So deep, so yawning _

_Invading my mind and causing my sanity to slowly drift_

_Drifting and gliding along the edges of my mind_

_Nothing else seems to be in existence_

_There is only the unknown tap_

_Tapping away my thoughts_

_Tapping away my dreams_

_My hopes, my aspirations, my being_

_The terrible noise is taking away who I am_

_My only real wish is for it to stop and allow our lives to return to the way they were_

_To return to the peace that we once had in this room_

And that was Alfredian for "fix the fucking pipe already! I can't stand that damn dripping noise any more, it's driving me insane!"

Arthur sighed as he set his tea cup down and looked at the note taped to his kettle.

It's been several months since he found the diary, several months since their relationship took a turn from platonic to something more; and several days since they graduated high school and moved in together.

Little notes like this were no longer new to the fourth child of the Kirkland family.

It had become habitual for Alfred to leave short "letters" to Arthur, containing short admissions such as "ur amazing!" or "I rented Rent!" or demands ("be outside by 5! We're going to see _Men in Black III_!"), or poems with a variety of hidden meanings, such as the most recent one covering up the rose pattern on the Englishman's brand new tea pot.

He had to admit that the little "letters" were endearing (but, no, he did not save every single one of them in a small box hidden on the right side of the top shelf in their closet, absolutely not!), but he couldn't help thinking that it would be nice to hear some of those things out loud. Alfred rarely said anything pertaining to his emotions regarding 'sappy' things like _love_ or _affection_. Then again, neither did Arthur, but Alfred was the one that started their relationship anyway…so shouldn't he say it first? Right.

Arthur removed the note from the pot, folded it up, and set it on the light blue tiled countertop. Filling the now note free pot with water, Arthur set it on their white gas stove (at least, he assumed it was supposed to be white, it came with the apartment and the color had yellowed in some spots, but the top had become considerably blacker since moving in, so he couldn't complain) and turned up the heat.

He took a seat at the cheap folding table that Alfred had gotten from his father as a kitchen table. It wasn't pretty, but it was all they needed. Leaning back in the brown folding chair, he thought back on the last few months, on the result of his thievery. He had been terrified that Alfred would be angry enough to terminate their long friendship, only to find that it was part of the git's master plan to confess to Arthur that he thought of him as more than just a friend.

Of course, their relationship did not completely change after the admission. They did not jump into a happy relationship filled with kisses and hand holding; starting a relationship with your best mate since elementary isn't as easy as one would think. They were already comfortable around each other, they were already comfortable around each other's families, they didn't need to go through a process of getting to know one another, dating each other was certainly much different from any of the other relationships that they'd been involved with. Normally, after spending so much time together, meeting each other's families, knowing each other so well, trusting each other, loving each other, most people would start moving into the physical spectrum of their relationship.

But Arthur and Alfred were different. It was awkward, and while Alfred seemed sure of his feelings (despite not being able to voice them out loud), Arthur hadn't been.

It wasn't that he didn't like Alfred, heaven's no! It wasn't that he wasn't attracted to Alfred, who wouldn't be? He just wasn't sure if he wanted to try being in a relationship with him. He enjoyed his friendship with Alfred. He didn't have many friends and the American had been his first one, the only one that he saw on a frequent basis and never got tired of. He knew that relationships could do a lot of damage to a friendship if something went wrong; he worried that he may lose his friendship with Alfred. The hardest part about these feelings had been explaining it. It was bloody embarrassing!

Luckily, Alfred had understood (even with the stuttering and pauses), and just seemed happy that he wasn't being completely rejected by the Englishman.

Arthur hadn't been the only one worrying about the possibility of their friendship ending. The only reason it had taken the boy over a year to confess (albeit, in a roundabout way) was that he had been concerned over how this sort of confession may affect their relationship. He debated on whether or not to keep those emotions to himself for fear of his best friend coming to hate him; it was a huge risk to take.

In the end, he couldn't bring himself to say it out loud and take the risk of an immediate rejection.

He formed a plan, one that would allow Arthur to understand everything without actually needing to hear anything, one that would allow Arthur time to think about it, and more importantly, time to allow Alfred to consider his options, consider the possible reactions Arthur may have, how to approach him, how to bring it up, he planned out a thousand different conversations with a million different results.

Of course, the one that occurred was one that he hadn't planned out at all. Planned conversations never work, no matter how much sleep you miss out because of them.

But, in the end, they came to an understanding. They both agreed to take some time to give it an immense amount of thought and have a serious discussion about it. Of course, Alfred didn't need to give it anymore thought than he already had, he'd already agonized over it so much over the past year. He knew what he wanted and that was Arthur. Still, he gave Arthur the space he needed to think, he understood how the other man felt and knew that rushing him would be only bring about disaster.

By the end of the week, Arthur had come to a decision. He couldn't imagine a life without Alfred. And now that he knew about Alfred's feelings for him, there was no way he could turn him down. There is always the fear that something could go wrong, they could fight, they could break up, they might never be able to be the same way that they were before, but if they didn't at least try, they'd spend their whole lives wondering about how their relationship could have been, about how happy they may have been if they had just given dating each other a chance.

Needless to say, Alfred had been elated and they spent the next few weeks awkwardly re-getting to know one another ("so…what part of England are you from again? I keep forgetting"), family re-introductions ("Thanks for having me over for dinner, Mrs. K! Oh by the way, Art and I are dating now!"), and re-acquainting themselves with personal boundaries ("No we cannot hold hands; we're in public you bloody twit!").

It was puzzling. They'd known each other for years, were closer to one another than they had been toward anyone else, and yet all it took was a change of relationship status to make them falter and tip-toe around each other as though they were perfectly good strangers on a blind date.

It wasn't until nearly two months into their relationship that they reverted back into a semblance of 'normal'; though, there were still times when Arthur would flinch away from Alfred's touch (PDA was still taboo, despite that word had spread pretty quickly that the school's golden boy and the student council president had started knocking on each other's boots...even though they weren't. Alfred was fairly certain that Arthur didn't even know what that particular term meant, if his bewildered expression was anything to go by), and times when Alfred would be unable to look Arthur in the eyes without gaining a considerable flush.

Thankfully, some of the awkward politeness that they'd been trying to shower on one another lifted. It was during that second month that they had their first heated argument since starting their new relationship. The argument was brought about by something that they would both look back on and call trivial (who would have thought that Alfred's simple forgetfulness in not calling when promised would lead to such an outcry?); however, it lead into more serious matters. Matters that had been picking at Arthur's brain, curiosity endlessly nudging him.

Alfred never would have pegged Arthur as the jealous type (he had good reasons for not doing so), but when Natalia's name was thrown out during their argument, it became clear.

Granted, their relationship had been short, but it had still been his longest at that time. Why did he stay with her if he was so miserable? If he hated it so much then why didn't he just leave? If what the diary implied was true, then they'd even slept together! They must have had something in common, something that linked them together, or else they wouldn't have been dating in the first place. There's no way he couldn't have felt anything for her, it didn't matter what the diary said, Arthur was sure of it.

At the accusations, Alfred could only laugh. Upon seeing Arthur, red faced with rage, but thick brows curved in confusion, his giggles continued, explaining through heaving breaths that the Brit had poor timing.

The intention was for him to be jealous, but not this late in the game. He did have something in common with the girl. They both loved people that they feared they couldn't have, they both wanted to cause jealousy in someone, neither of them knew how to express what they were feeling, so they both hoped that by being together it might cause the ones they were truly eyeing to act instead. However, only Ivan had acted. Arthur had needed a different sort of push.

And 'no,' they had not shared that sort of intimacy. Alfred was still quite virginal, he gave an abashed look as he admitted this, his blush increased considerably at Arthur's smirk.

Their first fight ended peacefully with apologies and a kiss.

Arthur sipped at his cooling tea, his mind drifting back toward the present. While he couldn't say the same for himself, he was quite glad that Alfred at least remained 'innocent.' He felt sincerely guilty at the rush of pleasure he received from thinking about being the other man's 'first.' In every sense of the word, Arthur wanted to be his 'first.' He was pretty sure he already missed out on the golden boy's first kiss, if the impressive things he did with his tongue was any indication, but he could still claim his others.

Arthur hummed in thought, draining the rest of the cup. He was his first boyfriend, for one. He was the first person other than his family that he's lived with (even if they had only been living together for a few days). Probably the first person he'd confessed to, as before the women had all been the ones coming onto him. And Arthur, Arthur could be the first to see the most intimate parts of Alfred. His hands would be the first to touch him in a way that only a lover should.

However, that was a problem. It's not that he doesn't want to, he's simply afraid. Alfred has been the one to make all the advances. He was the one that confessed to Arthur, the one that first held Arthur's hand, the one that kissed him. Arthur hadn't taken the first initiative for anything. But, here they were, together for a little more than three months, living together for nearly a week, and Alfred was showing no signs of trying to go any farther than kissing. Arthur was feeling relatively sure that if he wanted anything more, he'd have to be the one to push for it.

Despite the boisterous way Alfred acted, Arthur knew just how shy he could be. He's the sort of person that has difficulty doing things if he's never done them before.

He stood up, walking a few steps to the counter, and set the cup in the sink, listening to the dull clink of the china against the metal bottom.

His stomach churned at the thought. He wasn't used to being the one to take the lead; he has always been and probably would always be a follower. He didn't think he'd have any problem doing it, but the process of getting to that point…surely they'd have to discuss it? Of course, Alfred was certain to be just as scared, as timid, as he was regarding this matter. Arthur knew there was no way that he was the only one that wanted it, but he didn't want to pressure Alfred into anything he may not have been ready for. How was he supposed to know what was or wasn't alright without asking? More importantly, how was he even supposed to broach the subject without stuttering over every syllable and making a right fool of himself?

As the left over water from the kettle poured into the sink, the water sloshing lightly against the sides of the basin, peridot eyes alit with new found mirth. A grin slowly spread over pale lips.

He could say everything he needed to without saying anything at all.

* * *

><p>Alfred sighed as he trudged up the steps. He was lucky to get a job, but he couldn't say that he enjoyed it as much as he hoped he would (I mean come on, Starbucks! Who doesn't love freakin' Starbucks? Working there was a lot less fun than just bumming around there). He couldn't bring himself to complain though; he needed it to pay his half of the rent after all. He climbed two flights of stairs, and dragged his feet down the hallway before he stopped short outside of the door with "306" painted on the surface. This door was all that stood between him and his boyfriend. He could feel his face breaking out into a smile.<p>

He felt silly; that all it took to wash away his foul mood was thinking of Arthur seemed ridiculous.

He wrenched the door open, ready to strut in and announce his arrival to Arthur, who would undoubtedly be awaiting his return, only to find himself stumbling and falling face first onto the wooden living room floor in mid "I'm home, babe!" causing the exclamation to come out as something more similar to "I'm ho-AHGHRN!"…which sounded a lot less cool.

Pushing himself up and tentatively rubbing at his sore forehead, he looked back towards his feet and what they'd stumbled over.

A baseball bat. His baseball bat, to be precise. He sat up, reaching over and gripping his old partner.

Ah, they'd gone through so many games and tournaments together, it was kind of nostalgic.

However, he noticed something different about his bat. There was something inscribed on it. He'd never written anything on it, nor had it signed by anyone. He pulled it closer to read the words carefully, instantly recognizing the curvy, too pretty to be a guy's hand writing as Arthur's.

_Dear July,_

_Bedroom._

He was immediately able to deduce that July must be himself. Sure, Arthur had never written him any letters before, but Alfred's birthday was in July, it was written on his own baseball bat, and it was pretty obvious that Arthur wanted Alfred to trip over it, why else would he have put it by the door? It was too easy.

The only question now was why Arthur had gone through the trouble of defiling Alfred's prized bat and what was Alfred going to find in the bedroom?...Alright, so that's two questions, but Alfred wasn't going to waste his time with such trivial details.

He stood himself up, thinking to himself how cute Arthur was, but how nice it would be if he figured out to flirt without causing the American pain, and made his way past the small kitchen and bathroom.

He stopped outside of the bedroom door, normally, he wouldn't hesitate to rush in and see what was waiting for him, but there were three small notes taped on the door, again made out in Arthur's unique scrawl.

Alfred tilted his head slightly as he read each note.

On the left was:

_Dear July,_

_Strike out?_

In the middle:

_Dear July,_

_Third base?_

And finally to the right:

_Dear July,_

_Home run?_

Alfred quirked an eyebrow. He didn't get it. He had no idea what Arthur was asking with these notes. Not knowing what else to do, he gathered all three notes and opened the door, intent on asking Arthur just what the hell he meant by all of this.

As he crossed the threshold between the hallway and the bedroom, he froze. His eyes locked on Arthur's form, sitting calmly on the bed, his right leg casually crossed over his left. His elbow propped on his knee and his chin on his palm. A smirk graced his lips and there was a mischievous glint to his forest irises, but his red tinted cheeks gave away his embarrassment. Though, it wasn't the pose that caught Alfred off guard; it was what Arthur was wearing.

He blinked slowly, his gaze wondering over the other man in relative shock.

Everything was slowly starting to click into place.

There Arthur sat, a cap with NY on the front turned slightly to one side, pants that were obviously too large for him, the ones that Alfred could clearly remember having worn during his last game before graduating, and a jersey that was tucked in (specifically, a New York Yankee's replica personalized with the name "Jones" on the back), Arthur was even wearing Alfred's old cleats.

God, he looked hot.

Alfred looked to the notes, the meaning finally dawning on him. His gaze shifted back up to Arthur, shocked blue meeting anxious green. Abruptly, he dropped the bat and the papers, walking over to the bed with wide steps.

He stopped just inches away from it, staring at Arthur, unsure of how to proceed. It wasn't until the Englishman flushed a little deeper, clearing his throat and questioning Alfred with a simple, "Well?" that he finally moved in, catching those pale lips with his own chastely, pulling back just as swiftly as he'd moved in.

"Arthur, no matter what you want from me, I'm sure you'll never 'strike out,'" Alfred grinned, taking Arthur's face between his hands and absently running his thumbs against freckled, red cheeks, "besides, that's my lucky shirt you have on! It's impossible to miss a pitch wearing that."

Arthur only chuckled, his own hands coming up to grip at Alfred's wrists, pulling those calloused fingers away from his face as he leaned up to kiss Alfred again. Taking advantage of Alfred's own sniggering, Arthur dipped his tongue into the other's mouth, running the muscle over the boy's teeth and delighting as his giggles turned into a low groan before reciprocating the action.

Alfred's own tongue pushed back against Arthur's, slid against his, tangled with it. It wasn't long before he felt himself being pulled down onto the bed next to Arthur; wasn't long before he felt cold fingers tracing along his neck and down his chest, pausing at his belt and tugging his shirt from his body.

Alfred traced his palms over his own name that was graced on Arthur's back, slowly running them down to lightly grip at his ass, back up again to pull the shirt out from where it was tucked. As much as seeing Arthur wearing his baseball gear was turning him on, Alfred would rather be skin to skin.

The cap was the first to go, falling off of its own accord as the two kissed, lapping at the roofs of each other's mouths and sucking on each other's tongues. The jersey was next; Alfred pulled it off of his boyfriend's torso, tossing it to the bedroom floor. Third went Alfred's work shirt, he was quite glad to see the Starbucks logo resting on the floor with the jersey. Oddly enough, the first one naked was Alfred. Arthur was quicker with his hands, wasting no time with the American's belt while Alfred still struggled with the Englishman's buckle, his fingers fumbling over it.

Alfred felt more than he heard Arthur's chuckle against his neck as he lightly sucked at the junction between the American's neck and jaw, his own hands coming down to cover Alfred's, helping him with the belt and shimmying his way out of the white trousers. "No reason for you to be so nervous, love."

The younger man averted his eyes, moving his hands away and fisting them at his sides, unsure of what to do with them now, "m'not nervous," he mumbled out, ignoring a scoff from Arthur.

He jerked in shock and tried to hurriedly stifle a moan as he felt the man above him begin to slowly rub his package along Alfred's length. His eyes shifted back to gape at Arthur's smirking face, but he somehow felt pleased hearing the rough breaths that were escaping those pale chapped lips.

Alfred was honestly surprised at how forward Arthur was. He was usually so meek when he wasn't angry or drunk, seeing him take the lead like this when he was neither wasn't something he'd thought would happen. He thought that he would have to be the one to initiate everything. Not that Alfred was complaining, seeing this new side of his lover and long time friend was a shockingly arousing experience.

"Whoa…" Alfred gazed at the space between their bodies, barely able to see their cocks with the lighting and the angle, "your balls are touching my dick…"

A thick brow rose, "You want me stop?"

"No!" Alfred could feel his cheeks heating up, "I didn't mean it like that…" his eyes briefly flickered up to Arthur's before turning to the side, "it's just weird, ya know? It feels a lot different than I imagined."

The Englishman considered the words before a smirk slowly crawled its way over his face, "You've imagine it?" he watched in amusement as the red faced teen nodded, "What else have you imagined?"

Alfred swallowed thickly, willing himself not to stutter and failing, "L-lots of stuff…"

"Hmm…" the smirk never left Arthur's mouth as he voiced his acknowledgement. He bent down, opening his mouth to suck lightly at the side of his lover's jaw, speaking slowly between wet kisses, "Stuff? Like what?" he thrust his hips down, rubbing his cock and sac against Alfred's more roughly, enjoying the muffled groan the motion elicited from the man below him.

"Var-various things…" Alfred could hear and feel a chuckle against the junction between his ear and jaw, blue eyes involuntarily closing in embarrassment. There was no way he could say the things he'd thought about. How could Arthur expect him to talk about his sexual fantasies when he couldn't even say "I love you" out loud?

Arthur scoffed, shifting to brush his lips against Alfred's before leaning down to whisper in his ear, "You don't have to tell me now. I'm sure, in time, we'll manage to squeeze them all in. Maybe even some of things I've imagined too," he ran his tongue across the shell of Alfred's ear, pressing his pelvis more firmly down, grinding, "is this much alright for now?"

He felt the man beneath him shiver and respond to the question with a nod and a slow thrust of his hips, pushing back up against Arthur.

As the two found a rhythm, pressing themselves against one another, Alfred wound his fingers in Arthur's short locks, tugging his face away from his shoulder and locking their lips once more. Their thrusts become quicker and more erratic as they devoured each other, memorizing the taste and feel of teeth and lips, parting briefly for air and to let loose low moans.

Alfred's fingers curled and uncurled, unconsciously massaging his lover's scalp before running down, lightly scratching at his shoulders and back. He could feel Arthur pawing at his neck and chest, then bracing both of his arms on either side of Alfred's head as he gave a particularly rough thrust. The feeling of having Arthur against him, his slick skin gliding against his own, of his thick cock rubbing over his, he could only describe it as both surreal and amazing. Like nothing he'd ever felt nor imagined.

"Ah," Alfred gasped, his back arched involuntarily, his fingers dug grooves into Arthur's shoulders, "A-Arthur!" A shudder ran through his body and he could feel himself slipping over the edge, spilling out over his and Arthur's stomachs. He gave a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself down as he came down from his high, he could still feel Arthur rutting against him before he started trembling and made a soft noise, Alfred wasn't sure if it was a muffled word or just a moan, but he knew that Arthur had come, he could feel his warmth pouring out between their bodies.

They lay there, panting, for what seemed like hours. When Arthur's breathing had evened itself out to a tolerable level, he pushed himself up, kissing Alfred's cheeks and blatantly ignoring the chuckle he received in response.

Arthur's eyes went wide and he let out what he would deny as being a squeal as Alfred pushed him, rolling them over so they were on their sides.

The American grinned, his sapphire eyes half-lidded as he wrapped his arms around Arthur, pulling him closer so that the Englishman's head rested under Alfred's chin, "Work 'n the morning," he mumbled, as though that counted as a good explanation.

Arthur nodded, his nose brushing against Alfred's chest. He sighed, allowing his body to relax and willing his flush to dissipate, "Sleep well."

Embracing each other, the two allowed their heavy lids to close.

When morning arose, Arthur was quite displeased to find himself alone on their bed. Groggily sitting himself up, he yawned, ruffling his hair lightly. As much as not waking up next to Alfred irked him, he knew that it was only because the boy had work…damn you, Starbucks.

Tiredly forcing himself up, he quickly assessed his state of attire, which was of course none.

Shrugging, he absentmindedly made his way to the shower, intent on washing away the sweat and other various bodily fluids that may still be sticking to his skin.

He found it difficult to concentrate on what he was doing. While washing his body, the sting of the water made it hard not to think about the fingers that had been scratching his back. After he finished and was rubbing at his hair, trying to get it as dry as possible, he tried not to remember the feel of Alfred's hands stroking his scalp.

By the time he was finished, all he could do was huff in frustration. Maybe it wouldn't have been so distracting if he had managed to wake in time to wish Alfred a good day at work.

Going back into their room and pulling on a clean pair of boxers, he decided that the best way to clear his head would be a cup of tea. Tea is like Dr. Who, it fixes everything no matter when or where.

As he made his way into the kitchen, he stopped, eyes instantly falling on the fold up table where a rose, a jar of honey, and a piece of paper rested.

Carefully, he inched his way over to the table, his eyes scanned the floor attentively incase Alfred decided to pay him back for the bat but he saw nothing that looked like foul play.

He tentatively picked up the letter and read it, wondering what Alfred had to say. It looked too long for a simple 'good morning' letter.

_June 21st, 2012_

_Dear June,_

_For you I give a fake a rose, for true love never withers._

_P.S._

_Gasping and writhing_

_Petals scattered_

_Jerking, creaking_

_An aroma of sweat and honey_

_Sticking to the sheets_

Arthur ignored the burn in his cheeks and smiled, gently holding the plastic stem of the fake flower between his fingers, the smell of honey drifting up from the open jar.

That was Alfredian for "I want to fuck on a bed covered with roses and food play with honey would be cool shit, bro."

But more important than this little bit of knowledge and the excitement of a possible new bedroom game was Alfred's use of the word 'love.'

He didn't doubt Alfred's feelings, he understood them without having to hear them (he sincerely hoped that Alfred understood as well that even if Arthur has never said it, it doesn't mean he doesn't feel it)…but he had to admit, it was certainly nice to see it written out.

With that thought in mind, the Englishman finished his tea and went to find one of Alfred's baseballs.

After using a red sharpie to scribble on the surface, he set the ball down in front of the door.

_Dear July,_

_My heart is yours, now and forever._

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><p>Fin…again<p>

_Fun facts: _  
>- I wrote the first poem a couple years ago while living in a dorm room at my college...there was always dripping sounds coming from inside of one of the walls, constantly. It was really annoying but even after complaining no one would fix it, so...my roommate, one of her friends, and I decided to write poems about how much we hated the sound. I think her friend's poem compared the dripping to bowling balls? It was pretty interesting.<br>- That whole 'planning conversations' thing? Based on personal experience.  
>I do that all the time and it never works. As soon as someone strays from the script, I'm completely lost. XD<br>I don't know why I keep doing it.


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